Seven Days Of Insanity
by fuckthestraightline
Summary: "Ow," the clown whines, but his voice shakes with amusement, "you really need to stop doing that, Batsy. I might, uh, lose it one day." / Second Entry for the Batman/Joker week.
1. Kisses Are Red

**Rating:** M

**Warning:** No lemons this time. Sorry, folks.

**Author's Note(s):**

1. This story was written for the first prompt ("First Kiss") of the Batman/Joker Week.

2. I usually write OF and haven't tried my hand at FF for the last eight years. This is also my first Batman/Joker fanfic and while I adore this pairing and tried to do them justice, I realize some (a lot? You be the judge of that!) of this might be OOC. Participating in the Batman/Joker week is my way of trying to get a feel of this pairing and finding a writing style that I like, so please forgive me if this seems like a rough draft (it kind of is).

3. This is a Nolanverse fic. So, if you don't like Nolanverse, I understand, but then beware that this fic probably isn't for you.

4. This turned out longer than I expected. Any following prompts will likely be much shorter.

5. English is not my first language, so if you find that words don't add up or sentences don't make sense, I would _love_ you if you told me so I can (hopefully) grow as not only a writer but a speaker as well.

6. Enjoy (hopefully)! :)

* * *

When Bruce wakes from his deep slumber, he does so sluggishly, slowly, the ache in his muscles an unnecessary reminder of last night's escapades. He hates to admit it, but the cat-and-mouse games the Joker and he have been participating in for the last few months are starting to take their toll on him. He is tired and worn, but most of all, he is angry. The Joker remains just out of his grasp, as always, and the dreams that plague him offer no different outcome.

Bruce realizes it is not a good idea to start into the day by thinking of the madman before he has even opened his eyes. It will just make him cranky, and Alfred will worry more than he already does.

Finding the strength not to simply turn around and go back to sleep is hard, becoming aware of his surroundings proves to be even harder. Stretching, Bruce grimaces at the strain in his arms and curls his back with the intention of rolling up into a sitting position – only to release a groan at the sudden pain in his wrists as metal cuts into tender skin punishingly.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Rise. And. _Shine_."

Bruce's eyes snap wide open, just as a familiar cackle travels from near the window to his ears. The man in bed visibly stiffens, the heart in his chest starting into a painful, irregular sprint that drenches the color from his face and leaves him feeling as perturbed as any ordinary playboy billionaire should feel in the Joker's presence.

It takes him a moment to regain control, and even longer to make out the madman's shape in the semi-darkness of his room. Bruce's gaze falls onto the form sitting lazily against the window sill with his legs crossed, one leg swinging back and forth in a sickeningly fitting mockery of a child on a swingset. The sole source of light in the darkened room – a small ray of sunlight peeking in between drawn curtains – highlights only one gloved hand and a few greasy locks of green hair.

Bruce stiffens, his brain kicking into gear with a dozen thoughts a second. Where is Alfred; is the man unharmed? What items close to him can he use to escape the handcuffs; how did he get handcuffed to his own bed in the first place and why, oh why, is the Joker in the home of _Bruce Wayne_? Does the madman _know_?

The last thought comes like a slap to his face, and suddenly Bruce is so very conscious of the fact that he is not wearing his suit, or his mask, or any of his usual devices. Instead he is half-naked, no kevlar in sight, and as of yet still restrained in the presence of Gotham's most wanted criminal. He is also Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne has no idea how to take down a psychopath like the Joker – hell, Bruce Wayne even lacks the courage to entertain such thoughts.

"What…" He doesn't even have to fake the hesitation, the worry, if not fear, adorning his voice that is still rough from sleep. Bruce clears his throat and swallows, racks his brain for a response and tone adequate for Bruce Wayne and finally manages. At least he thinks he does. He has never had to play the part for Joker. "What… do you want from me? Why are you here?"

If the Joker's gaze on him is unnerving, the clown's silence is even more so. Bruce watches the man cock his head, then smile a smile that accentuates his facial scars in an all too familiar way. The Joker's tongue makes an appearance to flick against the far corner of his red lips, only to come away again with a soft click.

"Ah, Brucey-Bruce." His name on the Joker's lips is drawn out, as if the clown is trying to decide what the name feels like in his mouth. Bruce can't help but stiffen. "Is that, eh, any way to welcome a guest? I think _not_. Are you not, ah, _happy_ to see me?"

There is a pout in the clown's voice but before Bruce can come up with a reply, the madman has hopped off the window sill and started sauntering towards him. The glint of a knife in the Joker's right hand catches Bruce's attention, his eyes momentarily stuck on its familiar sight.

Tugging at the handcuffs, Bruce bends his knees and pulls with all his might. It is suddenly very hard to suppress a growl. Batman does _not_ like this game. He does not like it at all.

The clown merely chuckles, a sound so full of glee and satisfaction that Batman wants nothing more than to punch the man's lights out until there is nothing left. Everything about this situation is unacceptable, and the Batman despises it.

- But right now, he is still only Bruce Wayne. And Bruce knows that, even if he manages to free himself or at least knock the Joker unconscious, any such action might have consequences he does not know how to deal with. The Joker knows Batman too well; and surely, if Bruce makes one wrong move, the madman will _know_. And then what? Bruce cannot risk turning him in to the police then, but he also cannot, will not kill the man. There is one more option, of course, and that is to keep the clown here. Bruce knows the third option would be a risk to his very own sanity.

"What… do you want?" he repeats at last, trying to sound and look as nervous as possible. He even tries to pull at the cuffs again, this time to pretend that he wants nothing more than to inch away from the ever approaching madman. (In a way, this is not far away from the truth.)

"If it's money you want, I assure you I can provide you w–" His attempts at bargaining are disrupted by a bout of hysterical, shrill laughter that seem to echo with madness in the otherwise silent room. Bruce pretends to flinch and watches as the Joker brings up one hand to slick back his already greasy hair, and holds the other to his stomach as more laughter erupt.

And then, abruptly, they stop. The Joker is on him seemingly out of nowhere, straddling his waist, before Bruce can even think about bucking upwards to throw the man off. A hand circles his throat, pinning him to the mattress, and the blade against the corner of his mouth feels cold against his suddenly heated skin.

The Joker all but leers down at him, his green eyes burning with cold, ill-hearted amusement. He leans in, and Bruce feels the pressure of the knife against his skin. He tries not to move but the closeness of both the man's face and his weapon make it difficult not to try and twist away. But the clown leans closer still, until their noses are brushing. Whatever it is that is on his face this very second, the Joker seems oddly pleased with it, because he backs up just slightly a moment later. The glint of satisfaction in the madman's eyes is unmistakable, and Bruce knows – he knows he does not want to be here.

"Brucey, Brucey, Bruce," the clown mocks with a click and swipe of his tongue, his gaze flicking to his knife as he slides it along the corner of Bruce's mouth with a tenderness that is deceptive. Bruce knows this game; he has seen the Joker play it with many others before him. "I came to ah, kill you. You see, I am quite… _bored_, and I wanted to _spice_ things up a little. But ah, I've had a, uh, what do you call it?" The Joker giggles suddenly, and Bruce can't help but wonder if he's missing out on the punch line of a joke. "… Ah yes, a uh, change of _heart_, so to speak."

"Please." Bruce isn't sure how convincing his plea is, so he throws in a bit of stutter for the sake of it. He is not ready for this kind of confrontation. "I can give you anything you… you want. Money, power, _anything_." But even as he says it, Bruce starts shifting his legs slowly, inching them apart as subtly as possible in order to prepare for an attack. He is not about to get his face sliced up by the madman, or any other part of himself for that matter.

The Joker's eyes glint with interest, even as his expression seems to darken. "Please –"

"Sssh, shh," the madman interrupts in a sing-song voice, petting the billionaire's cheek none-to-gently, "no need to get so _upset_. No need to be so… _serious, hehe_." Beneath the Joker, Bruce's muscles tense in preparation.

The Joker merely leans in again, and presses the knife against the corner of Bruce's mouth until a drop of blood spills. Bruce doesn't flinch, but his legs finally settle on each side of the Joker's own. The fingers against his throat soften slightly as the Joker turns his head to draw attention to his painted mockery of a smile.

"Would you like to know how I got these scars?"

("_No_," Batman growls in fury, flips them over and headbutts the clown into unconsciousness.)

Before Bruce can think, he _does_ flip them over, twisting his head to the side and away, and feels the tip of the knife slide across his cheek and draw blood. Yet the pain is barely there, only gracing the surface, and his momentary triumph over the Joker outweighs it by far. Shoving his hips forward, Bruce pins the man beneath him, juts out his elbow to knock the knife out of the criminal's grip and ignores the pain of his bound wrists being tangled up all _wrong_.

Batman is furious, and for a moment his breaths come out heavy and uneven. He can't help but glare at the man beneath him. But the clown only seems to be beyond excitement.

"Look at _you_," he sing-songs, cackling, "so_ feisty_. I like that. I like that a –" A click of his tongue. _"- lot_."

Realizing what he's done, Bruce loses the expression immediately. Instead he manages to look surprised (he _is_) and fearful (he isn't) at his own actions.

What now?

Bruce pulls at his restraints, but they are too tight and his skin is already raw. He can't get out of them, not in this position. It unnerves him how relaxed the man beneath him is, and how his eyes trail across Bruce's features with curiosity and something else that he cannot (does not want to) identify. The gaze on him makes him jerk against the cuffs once more.

"Uncuff me," he says, but it is so, so hard to keep up the façade now, "and I will not call the police." Batman wants nothing more than to growl his most vicious command and pummel the man pressed against him.

The Joker laughs in delight, and before Bruce knows what's happening, the clown's hands are beneath the sheets, smoothing up the back of his naked thighs and – Bruce's body tenses as if pricked by a thousand needles, his lips parting in complete and utter shock, as fingers splay against the curve of his cloth-covered cheeks and _squeeze_ firmly.

The action is so unexpected that Bruce's hips jerk forward and into the man before his body has any say about it and suddenly there is a tongue in his mouth that definitely (_definitely_) isn't his own, scarred lips assaulting him.

And Bruce Wayne does nothing. Neither does Batman. He can't, he is paralyzed with shock and not even the Joker's biting kisses can tear him out of it. Batman is choking, or maybe he is drowning, he isn't quite sure which. The madman's mouth is warm and wet, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing soft about the kiss. It is the kiss of some wild creature, lunging at the opportunity it was so foolishly, carelessly given. Batman tastes his own blood, and feels the Joker's paint smear across his face.

It is only when the Joker's hips jut upwards, grinding pointedly, impatiently, that Bruce finally snaps out of it. Jerking his head backward as if stung, he stares down at the Joker for a moment, all wide eyes, flaring nostrils and abused lips.

In the semi-darkness of the room, Bruce sees the Joker smirk and then, then feels something he knows he will never be able to _unfeel_, or _forget_. The Joker is _hard_, and he too, he too is (no, no, _no_) – and suddenly the madman beneath him starts shrieking with triumphant, ugly laughter.

Shame floods Bruce, and Batman defends himself in the only way he knows: jerking his head back, he then pushes forward with all his force and smashes his forehead against the Joker's.

The laughter cut off abruptly, but Bruce doesn't move. He stares down at the Joker's unconscious face, the only sound in the room his own ragged, panicked breathing. The frantic beat of his heart is excruciating.

It takes him about two seconds to scramble off the smaller man, his own hurried movements nearly making him slip off the bed completely. The handcuffs dig into already raw skin, drawing blood at last. Bruce shivers, and hates himself for it. His eyes keep flicking back to the Joker, no matter how many times he tells himself not to look. But Bruce feels sick, so very _sick_, and he cannot explain what just happened, does not _want_ to.

The longer it takes Bruce to get the handcuffs off him, the more ashamed, the more shaken he feels. At last he succeeds, but there is no victory in this. The Joker and Batman have wrecked the city with their destructive chasing game for months now but this – this is unacceptable, sickening, wrong.

This _will_ cost him his sanity, and that cannot happen. Gotham still needs the Batman, and so does Bruce. He will not let the Joker destroy him, or manipulate him. He will not let the Joker in.

Reaching for his cellphone, Bruce Wayne casts one last glance at the Joker's (no longer smirking) face and, with great hesitation, dials the police's number. It is time to take the madman off the streets – and out of Bruce's reach – once and for all.

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Reviews are love.


	2. Bruises Are Blue

**Rating:** T

**Warning:** Violence (nothing too explicit)

**AN: **This is the second prompt for the B/J week ("A Padded Room For Two"). I tried to take a more figurative approach to the prompt, but eh, I'm not sure if it worked. :/ Anyway, this little fic is set seven months after _Kisses Are Red_, but it should be fine on its own as well. I'm not sure if all seven prompts will be connected to each other since I'm really just going with the flow here, but (!) I intend to try.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, faved, liked or is now following the story! It means **A LOT** to me and is truly motivating! :) I hope you enjoy this one as well.

* * *

When Bruce hears about the breakout at Arkham Asylum, he isn't surprised. He merely wonders why it hasn't happened sooner and what it means, if it even means anything.

The last question occupies his mind more than it should, and Bruce knows. Even now, with the Joker's unconscious form slumped in the seat next to him, knocked out by yet another one of his furious blows – he should probably stop doing that, lest he kill the madman by accident – Bruce feels on edge. He is not prepared for this and it isn't because he hasn't seen it coming. It is because he has deliberately, painstakingly avoided thinking about any of it.

(That is a lie. He thinks about the madman's eyes sometimes, and the smug look in them after pressing his lips to Batman's, Bruce's, own. He remembers the laughter, and how much they infuriate him, how much they make Batman want to shut up the Joker forever, or at least for a very, very long time. He remembers these ugly scars, remembers scrubbing the red paint from his _own_ lips just before the police arrive to take the intruder in Bruce Wayne's home away.)

Seven months is an awfully long time for the Joker to find a way to escape Arkham Asylum, Batman thinks. Or perhaps it isn't, and the only reason why it's happened _now _is because the madman grew bored of his prison at last.

It doesn't explain why it has taken the Batman only a little over four hours to catch the criminal. Surely, the Joker has no interest in further confinement and, surely, he knows that the Batman getting his hands on him will inevitably lead to just that.

Whatever is going on here, it doesn't sit well with Bruce. He's missing out on one big, fat joke and he hates it.

The man beside him stirs, drawing Bruce's eyes away from the tumbler's controls, but he doesn't wake. Bruce eyes him warily, lips drawn into a thin line. He doesn't have much time left to figure out how to handle this situation, and yet the stuffy air in the vehicle merely seems to slow and blur his thought process only further. Bruce wants nothing more than to slip off his mask, step out of the tumbler and breathe in the cold, crisp air of the night. Perhaps it would give him some clarity.

Instead he is stuck here, waiting for the cops to give up their search for Gotham's two most wanted criminals. They're everywhere tonight, filling up the streets with their cars and sirens and over the earpiece in his mask, Bruce listens in on them as they hunt for the criminally insane, but mostly for himself and the Joker.

Bruce knows he should not have made his apprehension of the Joker so obvious. Already he can picture tomorrow's headline – _Batman and Joker, working together?_ Or perhaps, _Batman helps Joker escape_.

A low moan coming from his right shoots tension through his body, even as he forces himself to let go of the controls and lean back in his seat. His hands curl into fists at his side and when he finally drags his gaze over to the awakening man, it isn't hard at all to put that scowl back on his face. In fact, Bruce is pretty sure he has been scowling throughout this entire night anyway.

The Joker shifts up slightly, leaning against the locked door like a drunk wreck and Bruce stares into eyes that slowly find their focus again. "Ow," the clown whines, but his voice shakes with amusement, "you really need to stop doing that, Batsy. I might, uh, _lose_ it one day."

Lose what, Bruce wonders. They both know it isn't his sanity.

Not bothering with a reply, Bruce just stares at the man. His mind drags him back to the question that has been plaguing him ever since the Joker's arrest – does the man _know_ his true identity, did Bruce give himself away that afternoon all these months ago?

Evidence suggests that the Joker is unaware. In the last seven months, no members of the police have shown up at the billionaire's doorstep, demanding he turn himself in for being Gotham's dark knight. No one has even come to investigate him. The Joker, too, has made no demands of being released in exchange for keeping his secret. Things have been quiet instead, and the Batman, despite being hunted, has managed to clean up the streets considerably in his time free of the Joker.

No, evidence does indeed suggest that the madman doesn't know. It's not like the man to keep quiet about it, is it? Surely the Joker would have used such knowledge to his advantage by now. At the very least, he would have _bragged_, or thrown comments his way that left no doubt as to whether or not he knew who Bruce really was.

On the other hand, it seems absolutely careless to assume that the Joker _hasn't_ figured it out. Bruce is painfully aware that he slipped more than once that day, his anger, his sheer outrage had been too prominent, too heavy. Never mind that knocking out the clown so easily practically spelled 'Batman' in big, red letters. Oh, sure, he could fool the police but the _Joker_?

Very unlikely.

Bruce withholds a sigh, just as the clown presses one of the buttons on the panel with interest and brings the tumbler's glaring front lights to life. Bruce's hand shoots out, gloved fingers wrapping around the Joker's thin wrist in a nearly bone crushing grip. But the Joker's manic giggles merely increase at the action, a tinge of delight in them.

Setting his jaw, Bruce jerks the clown's hand forward swiftly and against the panel, the sound of breaking bones bringing him some satisfaction at last. He ignores the man's resulting yelp, then scowls as laughter take over once more. Disgusted, he releases the Joker's hand.

"Don't touch anything." It is a cold, succinct order but even so, Batman can taste his own irritation on the tip of his tongue. At least the lights are out again. He wonders how long he can stand sitting in the semi-dark with the Joker; it is already a chore. The confined space the tumbler has to offer slowly starts to feel like a cell, and it annoys Bruce to no end that the Joker isn't the only prisoner in it. Bruce is too. Maybe indulging in another chase with the police will be easier than this.

It is a tempting prospect, but Batman can't take any more chances than he already has. Enough people have been harmed tonight. In the end, it is wiser to wait. That, and he still needs to figure out how to deal with the Joker. It has become obvious that the clown will neither be confined at the Asylum nor at the police station. Batman is running out of options.

The air in the tumbler borders on suffocating, or perhaps it is just Bruce's own unease that makes it seem so. The space between the Joker and himself is too small, and the silence too heavy. It's not that Bruce enjoys being mocked but the madman's lack of struggle and almost quiet demeanor is unnerving.

Watching the Joker study his surroundings with curiosity, Batman remains silent, and so does the Joker. After what seems like an eternity, the madman speaks, and Batman is _almost_ relieved.

"This is _bo-ring_," the Joker complains, whining as he cradles his broken hand to his chest, then tests the tumbler's door. It is, of course, locked. Batman has made sure there is no escape from this for either of them. "Can't we let them chase us a littlemore? It uh, will be _fun._" He clicks his tongue, and sends a lewd look Batman's way.

Batman tenses and feels something crawl up his throat. "There is no _we_," he growls, the sound coming from deep within as he pins the madman with a glare. The Joker's tongue makes an appearance then, licking over the corner of his mouth, and Batman wants nothing more than to rip that vile thing out of his mouth and get rid of it once and for all.

Leaning in slightly towards Bruce, the Joker looks infinitely amused as he first spits the words, then sing-songs them, "still in denial, I see. Oh, Batsy Bat, whatever shall I do, _about you_?" He looks contemplative for a moment, then smirks, stretching his ugly scars until the upward turn of his lips looks nothing short of insane. "_Perhapssss_," the clown concludes in a hiss, and only leans in further, "all you need is a, hehe, _wake up call_."

Batman sees red. He gets the joke this time around, alright, but it isn't fucking funny. Lunging across his seat at the Joker, his fingers close around the madman's neck and _squeeze_, and just for a second he swears nothing has ever felt better, more satisfying, more _glorious_ than this. The neck in his grip is strong and tense, and somehow it just makes it all the more worthwhile to grip it tighter still.

Forcing the Joker's head back against the window, Batman follows until his knees are on the leather-padded seat and he is all but on top of the man. "_Do. Not. Play. With. Me_." Each shouted growl is accompanied by a shove, the sound the back of the Joker's head makes when it connects with the window not nearly gratifying enough. If Bruce realizes how pained his furious shouts sound, he doesn't stop to think about it.

Instead he lets up a little, just enough to ensure the Joker's consciousness, and forces the man's head down until it is resting against leather. The change of position has left their bodies tangled together awkwardly, with Batman's hip pressed between the Joker's legs and one of the Joker's legs dangling helplessly from the edge of the seat. While no way near the same position as _back then_, the feel of it is hauntingly familiar. Bruce remembers the grinding of hips, and his own mortification.

The thought slows him down, eliciting an uncomfortably hot feeling in his chest that Bruce wishes is shame, or guilt. And it is both of these things, but not exclusively so. He stares at the Joker, who's rasping for breath and laughing at the same time. It is a sickening sound, the sound of an animal dying, gurgling its last breaths.

"So… _angry_," the madman states at last, tsking, but there is a mad glint of satisfaction in his eyes that is terrifying. Bruce doesn't move; he can't. He knows by the look in the other man's eyes that this has been a mistake. He shouldn't have started this especially since, for whatever damn reason, he finds himself capable of pulling away from the situation now.

His breathing turns ragged then, perhaps from restraint or perhaps in panic. His body demands that he moves, just a little because surely, just a _little_ friction would be good, so _good_. The Joker seems to have similar thoughts, his red lips parting to let out a low moan that is the furthest thing from innocent Bruce has ever heard. As the clown shifts beneath him, Bruce presses down with all his weight, prohibiting any further movement. _No_. (But the pressure, oh god, the pressure is maddening.)

The Joker catches his gaze, and Bruce is reminded of the last time they did this. For a moment he wonders if the man beneath him will use the moment to his advantage again and move his head up, up, up until – but the green-haired man does no such thing. He merely studies Bruce with a curiosity that seems almost scientific.

Then he leans up ever so slightly, and Bruce's breath catches. He hates himself for the reaction.

What he hates even more is how utterly, _utterly_ frustrated he feels when the madman does nothing more than smirk before resting his head back against the leather seat once more. Bruce swallows, and the lack of control over everything in this moment makes him feel lightheaded.

He is weak, because he wants this. He is weak because he is tired and alone, and when he leans down to kiss the Joker at last, it isn't hateful, not really. Batman wants it to be, he wants it to be that way so badly, but the way his lips caress the Joker's, the way his tongue slips inside the madman's mouth so readily speaks only of want. It is his teeth that deliver the anger, the frustration, and most of all the desperate need to make sense of this. The Joker's kisses in turn are mocking, triumphant and sharp with possessiveness. Most importantly, however, they make Bruce feel everything he isn't supposed to feel, and certainly not supposed to enjoy.

The heat is everywhere and ever growing, Bruce's fingers tangling in the madman's hair and pulling sharply. It causes the Joker to release a brief laugh, then bite at his lip hard enough to send a jolt of pain through the Bat's body. Bruce groans helplessly. He can't breathe.

By the time he manages to pull himself away, there is make up everywhere and his lips are bruised and swollen. But so are the Joker's. Trying to ignore the feel of the Joker's excitement beneath him as well as his own, Batman wipes his mouth and pointedly ignores the other man's eyes on him.

Exhaustion washes over him, and it quickly turns into pure dread as Bruce focuses on turning on the tumbler's engine. The lights come back to life, illuminating the dark tunnel in front of them as Bruce pulls out of their hiding place and stirs them back onto the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Batman can tell the Joker is smirking. "You know," the clown drawls at last, "I knew you'd miss me, Batsy."

If it's meant to raise Batman's hackles, it doesn't work. Instead the man in the driver's seat remains suspiciously silent, and wonders why he ever worried about his own sanity in the first place. Clearly, he is already a lost cause.

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